


hard feelings/loveless

by witching



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Existential Crisis, Feelings, Insecurity, M/M, Mind Meld, can be read as romantic or not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-10-24 14:43:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17706236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witching/pseuds/witching
Summary: Aziraphale said it was like the opposite of the feeling you’re having when you say things like “this feels spooky.” Crowley didn’t know what to make of that, but he expected it was something like the opposite of the feeling you get when the only person who truly knows you makes a cryptic remark suggesting that you can’t understand love.Crowley understood love all too well.





	hard feelings/loveless

**Author's Note:**

> this fic was inspired by:  
> 1\. me overthinking what "especially not to you" meant  
> 2\. me projecting my anxieties onto crowley  
> 3\. my intense desire to write angelic mind melds (somewhat; not exactly a full meld but a similar enough concept)  
> 4\. a bit of dialogue from masters of sex  
> 5\. a prompt from tumblr; "someone's worst fear"

“There seems to be this great sense of love. I can’t put it any better than that. Especially not to  _ you _ .”

Crowley had meant to get clarification on that particular point, he really had. He had started to ask a question, and then he’d been interrupted by a collision with a young occultist on a bicycle. Typical, both for him and for young occultists, as far as he knew them. Then he’d felt guilty for nearly killing her, and Aziraphale had fixed everything, which made him feel guiltier. In between hypnotizing an ex-nun, turning paint guns into real guns, and the fact that Aziraphale couldn’t get away from him fast enough when they got back to the bookshop, he just hadn’t been able to figure out how to bring the conversation round to it again. 

Aziraphale said it was like the opposite of the feeling you’re having when you say things like “this feels spooky.” Crowley didn’t know what to make of that, but he expected it was something like the opposite of the feeling you get when the only person who truly knows you makes a cryptic remark suggesting that you can’t understand love. 

Crowley understood love all too well. Sometimes he wished he didn’t understand it so profoundly; it had never done him any good. He was of angel stock, which made him just as perceptive of the emotional climate as Aziraphale, but he really hadn’t felt anything strange in Tadfield. The whole situation was concerning, and it nagged at him for days before and after the narrowly-avoided end of the world. 

_ What was Aziraphale trying to say? What if I die with him thinking I don’t know what love feels like? What if I really don’t know what love feels like? What if I die without ever experiencing love? What if he dies without ever knowing I loved him? What if we go on like this forever and nothing ever changes? _

_ What if everything changes? _

It took about four days of non-stop worrying and thinking himself dizzy before Crowley resolved to talk to Aziraphale about it, plain and to the purpose. He figured the worst the angel could do was to - well, the worst he could do was pretty bad. But the worst he was  _ likely  _ to do was not so bad.

He brought it up over tea. This was a subject best discussed when sober, which was a Herculean feat for Crowley. 

“Angel, I need to ask you something.” He tried to keep his voice smooth and casual, but it came out wooden. “I just remembered, just now, out of the blue, a conversation we were having last week.”

“Last week?”

“Yes, and I was wondering if you could shed some light on an issue for me.”

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. “Last week was rather eventful, Crowley. I’ll try, but I might not even remember the conversation in question.”

“Well, do you remember how you felt when we were headed into Tadfield?” Crowley fidgeted with the button on his jacket. “When you said -,”

“Love. It just felt like so much love,” Aziraphale interrupted. He sounded dazed, as if just the memory of the feeling was bliss.

Crowley nodded. “And do you remember what you said, when I wasn’t getting it?”

“Afraid not, my dear.”

“You said you couldn’t explain it,” Crowley began, “especially not to me.”

“Ah, yes,” Aziraphale said, not sensing the demon's distress. He furrowed his brow. “Did I say the thing about the spooky feeling? Because I thought that described it rather well.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. It was difficult not to find the angel's obliviousness endearing, sometimes. This was not one of those times.

“Why did you say that?” 

Aziraphale blinked. “Well, because that's what it felt like. I don't -”

“No, the other thing. Before that. Why did you say especially not to me?”

Silence hung in the air for a long moment before Aziraphale spoke again, choosing his words carefully. “I didn't think that you would be able to understand it.”

“What made you think that?”

Aziraphale didn't answer. He stared at his hands, inexplicably at a loss for words. Crowley took a deep breath, the angel's silence emboldening him to ask the obvious question. 

“Is it because,” he began, then swallowed nervously. “Is it because I'm a demon?”

“No,” Aziraphale said quickly. He hesitated before adding, “I don't think so.”

“Then what makes you so sure? That I couldn't comprehend the feeling?” Crowley tried again, and failed again, to keep the emotion out of his voice. 

Aziraphale thought about it for what seemed like an eternity. With each passing second, Crowley edged closer to being enveloped by complete panic. He didn't know, didn't want to think about, why he was so afraid of what the angel might say. 

Aziraphale sighed, exasperated by his inability to put the feeling into words. “It would be like - like trying to describe salt to someone who's never tasted salt.”

Crowley frowned. “What if I  _ have _ tasted salt?”

“Here, let me…” Aziraphale huffed out a breath. “Can I try something?” he asked, placing his hands on either side of Crowley's face.

Crowley started at the contact, but nodded his head. They had done this a few times over the years, when they needed to exchange a lot of information very quickly, or when there was a language barrier. It was a simple enough function of angel and demon existence, something that was necessary for the job on occasion. Crowley was sure neither Heaven nor Hell would approve of this abuse of the power.

Aziraphale closed his eyes. Crowley closed his eyes, too, because he felt like a voyeur watching Aziraphale's face during this.

It was quiet, intimate, close. Crowley could feel Aziraphale's hands, his breath, his aroma, his aura. But nothing else. A long time passed and he didn't feel anything, as if the angel had simply decided to stand there holding his face.

“There,” said Aziraphale after a time.

Crowley opened his eyes to see the angel. “There, what?”

“That was it.”

“That was what?”

Aziraphale wrinkled his brow and frowned deeply. “Didn't you feel it?”

“No,” Crowley said, “it just felt like normal.”

“Well, that doesn't make any sense.” Aziraphale finally lowered his hands from Crowley's face, placing them on his shoulders instead. “I was projecting that feeling into your very  _ being _ . How can you not have felt it?”

Crowley bit his lip, too hard. He took a moment to steady his breathing. What had started as some mixture of annoyance and anxiety and confusion was becoming intensely distressing. He couldn’t begin to process the implications behind this development, couldn’t let himself think about what it would mean if he was truly unable to feel the emotion Aziraphale had sensed. It must have been a fluke. Twice.

“Isn’t there something else you can do?” Crowley made several wild gestures as he spoke, his voice edging on frantic. “I mean, can’t you - I don’t know. Aziraphale?”

The angel pursed his lips, his gaze flickering to Crowley’s eyes, then down to the floor. “Is it so terribly important?” he asked, with the tone of one who knew how important it was, but who was hoping it was not that terribly important.

“ _ Yes _ ,” Crowley said desperately.

“There is one thing I could try, but - I don’t think you’ll like it.”

Crowley breathed a soft sigh. “Angel,  _ please _ .”

“Okay,” Aziraphale muttered with a grimace. He raised his hands to Crowley’s face once more. “You just have to let me in. Completely.”

“You’re gonna try to get, er, my channel tuned into your frequency?” 

The angel nodded. “I suppose that’s an accurate analogy. Maybe if I see it from your end of things, then I can find a way to… translate it into your language.” He winced at his mixing metaphors, his hands tensing on Crowley’s cheeks.

Crowley had to admit Aziraphale was right: he did not like this plan. The idea of  _ letting Aziraphale in, completely _ , was his worst fear. Or, he would have said it was, until he realized that it was worth that risk, to sort out all this emotions nonsense. He had always thought that he and the angel were speaking the  _ same  _ language, when it came to things like that, had always thought that they understood each other, even when things went unsaid. Now it was abundantly clear to him that much scarier than letting Aziraphale roam around in his mind was the possibility of never understanding that feeling.

“Do it,” he said, quiet but firm. He closed his eyes again.

There was no length of silence this time. As soon as Crowley lowered his mental defenses, Aziraphale choked out a gasp, pulled his hands away as if he had been burned, nearly jumped backward. Crowley felt his soul deflate.

“Wow,” Aziraphale whispered, staring at his open palms.

“What? What is it?” 

The angel looked up, awestruck. “It’s just - I mean -  _ wow _ .”

Crowley blinked back tears. He hadn’t had much hope, but he didn’t think the inside of his mind would be so horrific. “Aziraphale. Talk to me.”

“It all makes sense now,” the angel said, laughing on a breath. “You couldn’t feel it before, or when I tried to show it to you, because…” He laughed again.

“Because what?”

“Because you’re full of it.”

Crowley scoffed. “That’s hurtful.”

“No,” Aziraphale said quickly, “no, I mean… how do you feel right now?”

“You were just in my head, angel. You know.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “No, I know,” he explained softly, “but I want you to tell me how  _ you  _ think you feel. Tell me in your language.”

“I’m…” Crowley swallowed nervously. “I’m scared, angel. Scared and irritated and hurt.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, as if there had been a possibility of Crowley getting the answer wrong. “I picked up on all of that, but it was like… those tiny emotions floating in an entire ocean of love. The same feeling from before, and just as strong, and it’s everywhere in you.”

Crowley furrowed his brow and blinked several times. “I don’t get it,” he said. “If it was the same feeling, why didn’t you make the connection earlier? Wouldn’t you recognize it just from being around me all the time?”

“Well, no.” The angel blushed. “I usually tune out of your emotional environment.”

“Why?”

Aziraphale laughed. “It’s exhausting, first of all, so intense all of the time. But also, it feels sort of… invasive. Feels like a violation of trust.”

“Oh. Thanks.” Crowley thought for a long moment. “What about - I mean, if that’s… love,” he struggled to get the word out, “then what’s this other feeling? The one that I’ve been calling love for all this time?”

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale said. “I can’t possibly imagine.” He didn't have to voice his surprise at the fact that Crowley had an emotion he called love. It wasn't that he had truly thought Crowley was incapable of such an emotion; he was deeply aware of the power and range of the demon's feelings. He simply hadn't thought that Crowley was in tune with his own mind enough to understand it in those terms.

“Can I show you?” Crowley blurted without thinking.

Aziraphale nodded once, quick and serious, before Crowley took the angel’s head between his hands. They both closed their eyes again.

“This always gives me such a headache,” Aziraphale murmured.

Crowley let out a huff of a laugh. “Hey, you did it to me twice,” he said. “Fair’s fair.” 

“Alright, get on with it, then.” 

Taking a deep breath, the demon focused on saturating Aziraphale’s essence with the feeling in question. He felt the angel’s face twitch, but with his eyes closed he couldn’t pinpoint the expression that accompanied the motion.

“This is…” Aziraphale paused for a thought. “It’s something I feel all the time, but I can’t put a name to it. Although if I had to -,” he cut himself off, snapping his mouth shut and stepping back, just out of Crowley’s reach.

“What?” Crowley opened his eyes and cocked his head at the angel.

“If I had to name it, I’d say it’s you.” Aziraphale looked at the floor, shuffled his feet. 

“What, you mean like - I don’t understand.”

Aziraphale sniffed and shoved a hand in his pocket, looking for anything to do that didn’t involve looking up to show Crowley his face. “It’s hard to describe,” he said to the floor. “It’s just, I don’t know,  _ you _ . Not quite the feeling that I sense from you when I can’t drown you out, not quite the feeling that I feel when you’re around, but some odd combination. Just you, as an idea.”

“I’m not an idea,” Crowley muttered, “or an emotion. I’m a person. I mean, a demon, but still. None of this makes any sense.”

“Emotions are sort of ineffable by definition, wouldn’t you say?” 

“Yes, er. I suppose.” Crowley took a beat, a breath, shook his head slightly to clear his mind. “So, what… what is our takeaway here? We - we just understand nothing about feelings? Is that it?”

“Surely, not  _ nothing _ ,” Aziraphale said. “I think this has been a rather edifying experience.”

Crowley gave a short, bitter laugh. “By all means, angel, catch me up to speed, then. I’m lost. What have we learned here?”

“Well, first of all, that our… sensitivities don’t necessarily make any of this easier. That we could stand to communicate better than we have been.” Aziraphale adjusted his glasses and blew out a breath. “And that, erm, love is complicated. It’s not always the same, and it’s not cut and dry the way we’d like it to be.”

Crowley nodded slowly, mulling over Aziraphale’s words. He scratched his head. “It took us six thousand years to figure out ‘love is complicated?’”

Aziraphale laughed, finally looking up at Crowley. “Yes, I suppose it did. Meanwhile, the humans figured it out before they managed settled agriculture.”

“We’re a bit slow on the uptake,” the demon murmured.

“Yes,” the angel laughed again. “Yes, we are.”


End file.
